Yes, I know, - I need to stop apologising for the delays on this. But it's been a brutal few months and I am exhausted and in desperate need of a holiday. Fat chance of that happening any time soon though! The next chapters will see Ned finally out of the South, the first sight of the Chairs working and the much anticipated sighting of the Bloodraven.

Kevan

He stood at the railing and looked down into the courtyard. Members of the Night's Watch were being drilled by Thorne, but off to one side he could see Gerion instructing his son through some quite advanced sword drills. Allarion was skilled, he could see that at a glance. The young man – he was no boy – seldom made the same mistake twice. His face was intent, his concentration exact, he was a Lannister to his fingertips – and something more.

He looked at the sky for a moment, sighed and then looked at Joffrey. Jaimes's son was standing off to one side, watching Gerion and Allarion, a look of deep and abiding conflict on his face.

No, the boy did not understand. Would he ever?

He sensed movement to one side and looked to see Addam Marbrand approaching him. As the heir to Ashemark joined him at the rail he nodded down at the yard. "What do you think of Allarion?"

Marbrand pursed his lips in thought for a moment. "Quick. Clever. He'll be good, one day." He looked at him for a moment. "If he survives the war here that is."

"I hope that we have time," Kevan said quietly. "I know that they're coming. But I hope that we have time."

They stood there, for a time, waiting and watching as Gerion continued his lesson with his son and then finally finished it, before walking off with his hand on Allarion's shoulder, visibly proud of the lad.

And then, finally, he asked: "I know that it's been but a few days. But what do you think of Joffrey?"

Addam Marbrand visibly tried not to pull a face. "The boy is... well, he is... I mean that..."

"Speak plainly, please. I am not my elder brother."

There was a pause. "I think it might be too early to tell. The boy is poor at learning, at least so far. He seems to have learnt nothing from the Hound, even though I know that he was taught much." Marbrand paused and sighed deeply. "He's still arrogant, at heart. Cersei poured a lot of her poison into him. I don't know how long it will take to get it out of him. He's still used to being a Prince of the Realm and the heir to the Iron Throne. Being a bastard on the Wall with the Night's Watch... the wound caused by his downfall is still raw. Still bleeding. But he must learn to live here or he will die."

Kevan nodded. "That fits with what I have seen. Keep teaching him, Ser Addam. Keep teaching him, until Jaime comes back from this mission of his with the Green Man."

"I will." Marbrand nodded formally and then took his leave. As he left Kevan stared up at the sky for a long moment. Slate-gray clouds were scudding East and a little South and the wind was chilly. He wondered when there would be another Summer snow up here. Gods, true Winter here must be terrible – and yet they'd have to witness it, when the Others came.

"Ser Kevan?" He looked to one side, where a servant in Baratheon colours stood. "His Grace the King has called on you and others to attend him at once in the main hall. Word has come from Winterfell."

He nodded and strode off, wrapping his cloak around him and making a mental note to order something with a lot of fur on it whenever he was at the Wall. Mere cloth, no matter how thick, would not be enough.

When he reached the hall he could see Tywin already standing by the King, who was holding a message in one hand and gesturing at it with the other. The two had their eyebrows raised and would occasionally bring in the Lord Commander, who was looking at a number of papers.

Tarly walked in with Gerion, with Thorne following and Benjen Stark and Maester Aemon, along with Royce and Redfort whereupon the King looked up. "My Lords, Sers, news from Winterfell. Two messages, both surprising. Firstly, there is a Child of the Forest in Winterfell who says that Ned - Lord Stark – has killed the Drowned God."

He felt his eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. Ned Stark had killed a God? Then he blinked. Wait – a Child of the Forest? Were they not extinct?

"Aye," the King rumbled, "I know, 'tis sounds insane. But Catelyn Stark and Robb Stark have both signed this message. And there is more. A room has been found in Winterfell, a room with a chair that matches the one that was discovered in the Nightfort. Apparently when a Stark at the Nightfort sits in one that the same time that a Stark sits in the one at Winterfell, they can talk to each other. It's a magic of the First Men, the rarest of magics, made by 'Stonesingers.' If it's true then it's valuable."

"Stonesingers, your Grace?" Royce asked, looking stunned. "Stone singers are said to be rarer than wargs or Greenseers. So rare that none have been seen in many a long year. Centuries, if not thousands of years."

The King's eyebrows beetled up and down at this. "Robb Stark wishes to test the chairs. He will sit in it in three days time, at noon. Benjen Stark, as the only Stark on the Wall, we'll need you to be at the Nightfort at the same time to sit in the chair there. Lord Commander, how does the work at that castle progress?"

"It's the biggest of the castles on the Wall and as such has needed the most resources," Mormont said. "Much has been done, but it's not yet rebuilt. Not just yet. That said, it's been repaired enough that there's a garrison there. And we must consider moving the leadership of the Night's Watch there at some point, once it is repaired in full."

"Then I will travel there tomorrow, with Benjen Stark, and whoever wishes to travel with me, to see this. My Lords, this could be vital to our communications with the lands to our South. What we might learn here could important beyond words."

There was a rumble of words in support of the King's words. And then the King nodded at all of them and strode off, the Lord Commander, Maester Aemon and Benjen Stark at his heels.

Tywin strode towards him. "Well, now. I'll go with them. He's right, this could be vital and a Lannister should be there to witness it." A wintery smile crossed his face and Tywin grasped his arm and pulled him closer for a moment. "Ned Stark might have killed a God. A GOD. If we win this war, if we prevail, and the Game of Thrones ever re-asserts itself, do you have any idea how powerful and influential the Starks will be? We must be mindful of this. We must ally with them. Start thinking how to, brother. Start thinking."

Jon Stark

The voyage back to Pyke was a strained one. For much of it he could see Asha Greyjoy at the prow of the ship, her eyes on the horizon, her face set in lines that spoke of uncertainty and tension. He knew why. The bedrock of so many of her people was suddenly gone, thanks to Father.

And the Iron Islands were in flux, dancing about like fireflies in the wind.

After the lookout finally called out that Pyke was in sight he shook his head a little and then walked over to where Ygritte was standing. She was a bit pale but she seemed to have more sealegs than before.

"You alright?"

"Thinkin' about too much to think about the sea." She smiled a strained smile at him. "I'll be happy to get back to the North. Where things make sense."

He smiled back at her and took her hand. "There's a lot to do there. I need to find us a holdfast. A place to live. Father promised me good land, so that I can be a bannerman to Robb. Found a cadet branch."

"What does that even mean – cadet?"

He looked at her. "A junior branch of Starks. Like... the Karstarks. They were Starks once. Cousins to the Starks of Winterfell now." he widened the smile into a grin. "You've got a lot of Kneeler ways to learn, as my wife."

She returned his gaze – and there was a challenge in that look. "Oh and you've got a lot to learn yourself, Jon Stark. How to do a lot of things. Lead people. You're not bad. You need to get better." Her face went bleak for a moment. "The Wall had better hold."

"It'll hold," he told her. "It has to." And then he walked behind her and wrapped her up in a hug that she returned, holding his arms as the sea rushed past them on either side. "I just hope that Father's alright."

"You're worried about The Stark? He killed-" She dropped her voice as she eyed the solemn-faced Ironborn as they went about their tasks about the ship. "Him."

"I'm worried," he replied. "We don't know if he was injured in it. And if there's one thing I've learnt recently, it's that all things come with a cost somewhere. There's always a price to pay."

"Then you do know something then, Jon Stark. Husband." She twisted slightly in his arms to look at him and he kissed her quickly.

When the harbour near Pyke came into view there was more shouting and signalling and pulling on ropes and all the things that slightly bewildered him, before they finally started to approach the quay where they could moor. There was a crowd gathering there and he eyed it worriedly, before seeing two familiar faces. The first was Asha and Theon's mother, who was still wearing black but who looked much more composed than she had before. The second was also dressed in black and leaning on a crutch. He's seen him briefly before on Harlaw. Victarion Greyjoy.

The Reader had come on deck now, having sent his own ship on to Harlaw, and Stannis Baratheon was next to him. The two seemed to have forged an understanding – not a friendship, he doubted that the Hand of the King was capable of making friends – and they seemed to understand each other.

As the ship moored at the dock he watched as Asha Greyjoy waited by the gangway, visibly calm – but he could see the small visual clues that showed that she was boiling under the surface. When the gangway was ready she strode down it. "Mother. Nuncle Victarion."

Both bowed to her, Victarion awkwardly due to his obviously injured knee. "Pyke is yours," Victarion boomed, before looking deeply uneasy. "We must speak in private, niece. Things have happened that-"

"The Drowned Men have lost their god," Asha's mother said firmly. "Some are quite mad. Others are just... unsettled. All say the same thing – that the voice in their head is gone."

"The Drowned God is dead!" Someone howled it from the crowd before them. "What shall we do now?"

Asha Greyjoy's face turned to stone for a moment. "WE WILL CONTINUE!" She shouted the words as she looked around at the crowd. "We are Ironborn. Of these Islands. Of this blood. Yes, the Drowned God is dead." If anything her face turned harder. "We have more to think of. The Others come. We KNOW this. They came here, to Pyke. How many here lost kin when they attacked? How many? We are at WAR! There is a fight to come that we all heard of. The Stark calls for aid. At the Wall. We fight there and we watch the seas for any other attack on us or any other shore! Who else can guard and fight and watch like we can? WHO ELSE?"

The crowd stirred and muttered and then cheered at Asha as she grimly pulled her sword out of its scabbard and then lifted it over her head. "We are IRONBORN!"

"Ironborn!" The crowd replied. "IRONBORN!"

Stannis Baratheon swapped a glance with the Reader and then at Theon and himself. "Aye. She'll do."

Sandor

He was thoughtful as he sat there and looked about the courtyard. It wasn't the main one of Winterfell, it was one of the few small ones, but that fitted his mood. The little paper message from the raven that had come from the Westerlands was in his hand and he looked at it once again and then sighed.

Clegane Keep was his. He was the lord of it, or the Ser of it, or whatever the fuck the right empty title was. The Monster had ruined whatever status the title 'Ser' had in his mind.

What to do now? What could he do now? Go home? Where was home? Home hadn't been Clegane Keep for a long time now. A very long time indeed. Not since he was burnt really.

And now he was healed. But he knew that some scars would not – could not – go away.

A mug of ale was set in front of him and he looked up to see Beth in front of him. She looked worried. "Are you alright, Sandor?"

He flipped the message in his hand lightly. "I... I have a keep. Clegane Keep. With him dead, I inherit."

Beth sat down next to him and gazed at him with concern. "And... is that not good?"

A bitter laugh ripped its way out of him. "I don't want it. I've got no happy memories of it, not after the Monster burnt my face for daring to take his toy. My father didn't punish him, my mother was afraid of him, my sister..." That old hatred burned again in the depth of his mind. "She died," he said eventually. "And I think he killed her. Clegane Keep is not 'home'. I never knew a home. So I don't want it, even though it's mine now."

They sat there for a long moment as she looked at him with a furrowed brow and something in her eyes that made him try but fail to look away.

"He's dead," she said eventually. "You and Lord Robb killed him. He was possessed - and evil even before that. We were all warned about him, all of us servants. Lord and Lady Stark told us that the man was to be avoided. Run from if need be."

"I know what he was like," he said and the hate was black and poisonous on his tongue. He sipped the ale but it did not take the taste away. "And that's the other thing. To some in Clegane Keep I'm a kinslayer. I killed my brother."

"You and Lord Robb killed him as he tried to kill Lord Robb and the Lady Val," Beth told him urgently. "You did the right thing. You're a good man, Sandor Clegane. A good man. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

He hung his head in shame at her words. "Good? For years I was just The Hound. I was the Golden Brat's sworn sword. When he gave me orders... I had to obey. I've done things, Beth. Terrible things. I'm not a good man. I don't know what I am."

There was a strained silence and then her grip on his hand tightened. "I know what you are. The Green Man wouldn't have healed you unless you were a good man. Mayhaps you've just been on the wrong path until now. But you're here now, with me now and I say that you're a good man. The Call has gone out and you are here. The Others come. Lord Stark's called for aid. You're needed. And... and I need you. I love you, Sandor Clegane. You're not a hound anymore. You're a free man."

He scrubbed at his eyes for a moment, cursing at himself – and then he raised his head and looked at her. Her gaze... gods, her gaze. She trusted him. He smiled a strained smile at her. "A free man. Thank you Beth. And I love you too. But I still don't know what to fucking do."

"Can't you talk to Lord Tyrion about the Keep?"

He frowned. "What - about what?"

"Swapping it or something. A keep in the North for a keep in the Westerlands?"

"A keep in the North?"

"You helped Lord Robb. The Starks owe you a debt. And you're here. In the North. I don't know how lords manage these things, but..." She shrugged her shoulders. Then she took a deep breath. "I mean, you don't see Clegane Keep as home. Why not make a real home? Here, in the North? You've said so often how much you like it here. We call a spade a bloody shovel here. Why not?"

There was, again, something in her eyes. And she made sense. He mulled it over as he sat there and sipped on his ale.

"You're wiser than I am, Beth. I can ask. I can try. I... never thought about it much. I always that the Monster and I would fight one day and I'd hopefully kill him and probably die in the doing of it. More than that..."

She smiled at him again. "You didn't dream of more? A wife? A family?"

He brought a hand up and ran it over the flesh and hair of his restored face. "I... I didn't dare ever hope. I just... existed. And then the Green Man changed me and the Monster died."

"Then hope," she said urgently. "Hope here. In the North. With me. Build something here, Sandor. Build a home with me."

She was flushed with emotion and he felt something shift inside him, something he hadn't felt in a very long time. And then he grinned at her and pulled her close and kissed her.

Gendry

He looked down at the glowing runes on the breastplate and sighed a little. He'd done a good job on it, or at least he was sure he'd done a good job – and that was what worried him. He was relying on runes from a book. Yes, the Royces had preserved much… what was the word? Runecraft? Runelore? But no-one had used runed armour against the Others in thousands of years.

And that was what worried him.

Yes, the Thenns had assured him that the runes made sense, that the Royces had remembered truly, that the runes made sense… but he was still fearful that somewhere along the way he'd made a mistake, that something might go awry at some point.

He wiped his hands almost absent-mindedly on a piece of cloth and then frowned down at the breastplate. It was good work, he could see that at a glance. But… the runes still worried him.

And so he put it to one side, banked his tools carefully against the wall, checked that all was put away as it should be in the forge and then nodded to the others and walked out into the courtyard. A thin snow was falling, not hard, but enough to dust everything with white. He still marvelled a little at the tiny feathers of cold that fell from the sky. He could barely remember the last winter, not that it had truly had King's Landing in its grip, not like here. No, never like here.

The North was huge and bare and cold. And beyond the Wall was colder still – and had evil creatures born of the cold and something greater and nastier, or so he'd been told.

He stood there for a moment, irresolute – and then he sighed and walked towards the Maester's Quarters. Along the way he could see Joffrey Hill training with Ser Addam again, the lad sweating and scowling and… gods he was useless. He kept making the same mistakes and Ser Addam was quiet but pointed in his criticism, not that the little brat seemed to be listening.

Gendry shook his head for a moment. Gods. They were close enough in age, and here he was calling Joffrey Hill a 'brat'. Frankly he couldn't think of another word for him. Well, not a polite one, anyway.

The Maester's door loomed and he drew himself up and knocked on it as politely as he could. After a moment the Maester's assistant, Jenn the Wildling opened it and squinted at him suspiciously. "And what do you want, Gendry Strongarm?"

"A word with the Maester, if you please Jenn," he said politely. "Tell him I need to talk of runes."

Jenn's eyes widened for a long moment – and then she nodded. "A moment." She closed the door and he could hear voices in the room beyond, before the door opened and she gestured him in.

Maester Aemon was sitting at a large table, surrounded with books and papers around him. For such an old man, he looked remarkably active and vigorous. "Ah, young Gendry! What can I do for you, young man, about runes?"

He nodded formally and then hesitantly approached, pulling the book out as he did. "Maester Aemon…" He paused and tried to gather his scattered thoughts. "I mean, I want…"

The old Maester eyed him kindly and then gestured for him to sit. "Now. Marshall your thoughts. I see that you have a book there?"

He answered with a nod and handed it over. "Lord Royce gave it to me. It's from Runestone. And it's about runes. But… I'm worried."

The purple eyes of the Maester looked at him. "About what?"

"Making a mistake." He took a deep breath. "They call me Runesmith," he all but gabbled, "But although I can carve the runes and make them glow – what if they're wrong somehow? What if I make a mistake in this? Runes to battle the Others haven't been carved in… hundreds of years? Thousands? I know that I have the book, which says I'm getting them right, but… is the book right?"

He closed his eyes for a long and anguished moment. "His Grace the King is my father… and I've been scribing runes on his armour. And he's the Storm King, or he's fated to be, I don't know. He'll battle the Others. And I don't want the runes to fail him. How can I be sure that they won't?"

Maester Aemon looked at the book for a long moment and then looked at him – and there was an assessing look to his gaze that made Gendry straighten in his seat as if at attention.

"My boy," the Maester said eventually, before pausing. "No – Great-great-grand nephew, for that is what you are. We are related, you know. There is much of your father in you, but I see a few touches of your great grandmother in you. And she would have approved mightily of what you have just said." He smiled a tiny, almost bitter, smile. "She valued knowledge and how to use it."

The thought of the fact that they were related left him gobsmacked for a long moment. "I'm just a bastard," he said eventually.

"No, you are not," the Maester said with a sharp look. "You are a Baratheon. And your fears are valid and should be addressed." He looked at him and then sighed slightly. "Runes have not been carved for many years, not the true runes that should be used to fight the Others, so you are quite right in that. However, the Royces have remembered much and this book is founded on that. So, I shall consult my books and what we have here. Have you asked the Thenns about this?"

"I have," he admitted. "They think that I'm worrying over nothing. But… I want to be sure."

This seemed to almost amuse the old man. "There are so very few sureties in life," he said wryly after a moment. "There are times when what we are sure of is built on stone and other times built on sand. It is not until the storm comes that we know the truth."

"The storm's what worries me," Gendry admitted. "And I don't want anyone to be swept away because of me getting a rune wrong."

"Then we will study together," Maester Aemon said with a smile. "Now – tell me what runes you are most worried about. If things need to be corrected, then we should correct them now, before this war on the Wall starts in earnest."

Jaime

He could never have thought, or guessed, or even japed, that he would have attended a wedding North of the Wall. And yet that was what he had done not long after dawn that day. And the couple had been the oddest one, in thought at least, that he could have thought. The Blackfish and Brienne of Tarth.

What a noisy pair they had been, in that cave. Tch. Echoes.

The moment that they'd left the crag, the location of which he'd tried to memorise, they had ridden hard in one direction, led by the Green Man. He'd taken them straight to a Heart Tree and there – with the occasional glare at the Blackfish and mutter that he had better treat his great-grand daughter properly – he'd married the pair of them.

It had all been most… well, as Tyrion would say, singular. Especially when the two of them had kissed. It gave him the oddest feeling that for the first time in his life the Blackfish was complete.

And then they had started to ride North again. He couldn't help but reflect bitterly as they rode about the cruelties of life and of love. The Blackfish and Brienne had found each other. Tyrion had found his Dacey. And he… would never have anyone. Save, perhaps, a whore in Moletown who had some affection for him, or his own hand.

There were a long list of people to blame for all of this, starting with Aerys fucking Targaryen, who had hated Father so much that he'd appointed him to the Kingsguard, despite him being a green youth. But the beginning and end, properly speaking, of blame all came down to him. Himself. He had bent the knee to the Mad King. Yes, he'd killed the insane murdering lunatic, but then he hadn't told anyone why, even though people had been put at risk. And then he'd betrayed a second King by bedding that King's wife and putting three babes in her belly. His own sister.

Madness. Simple madness. And all the time, every step of the way along that path of madness, he'd done what he did because… because of what? Because parts were easy? Because he'd been scared of what might happen if he spoke out against it? Because… he had no words.

They crested a rise and looked out at a shallow valley beyond, with a scattering of trees here and there and what looked like the remains of a village in the middle. The wall around the settlement looked hasty and slipshod and much of it was fallen, parts burned, as much as he could see through the layer of snow and ice. Had the wind uncovered parts of it? That wind was cold and harsh and he shivered a little and thanked the Gods that he had followed Tyrion's instructions to the letter in the layering of his clothes.

"I like not the look of that," the Blackfish said grimly after a moment. "Abandoned by Wildings, yes?"

"Yes," said the Green Man in a voice as grim. "And I can smell a bad end to many down there. We'll ride around it. Upwind where we can." He looked about and almost seemed to sniff the air as if to sense something. "Ride swiftly, we must get North now!"

As they skirted the village and then rode hard for the next ridge he looked at the remains of the settlement and narrowed his eyes. Were some of the snow-covered lumps and bumps shivering or moving? A trick of the light perhaps? Then he looked over to the Green Man, who was also looking in the same direction.

"Wights," the former Kingsguard snarled. "Sleeping uneasily, or the nearest thing to it for their kind. We have no time to end them. Coming back – perhaps. But not now. And there might be an Other nearby."

Once they reached the other rise they slowed and then rode on, the Green Man standing up at times in his stirrups to look ahead, before relaxing a little. "On, North!"

They rode, and with every mile that passed he wondered at what they were doing here and what the others were sensing. There was one moment when all three of them stopped and looked to the East, before swapping glances and then riding on. "Uneasy feelings," Brienne of Tarth said reluctantly when they stopped at noon to eat and to rest the horses. "Something happened." She seemed to struggle for a long moment to find the words. "Something bad happened there, not too long ago. It's like… something walked over many graves there. People died."

He watched her face work and then saw the way that the Blackfish reached out to hold her hand and then lean over to rest his forehead against hers for a long moment and once again he felt a stab of envy at what they had.

And then, about an hour or so after that, they came across what he would later always call a boneyard, or what remained of one. There was a great burned circle of trees around a large clearing that had what looked like some snow-covered barricades around it. And in that burned circle were burned bones and other bones. Skulls. Teeth.

"The Wildlings fought here, against the Others and their wights," the Green Man said quietly. "And perhaps won here, for a while. Until they fled South again. Be watchful."

He swallowed thickly, sniffing at the old and too-familiar stench of human ash and fat, before nodding and riding on.

Gods. It was all true. Every bit of it. He'd had that lingering worm of doubt in him, that last fragment of uncertainty… which was now gone. They were all in mortal danger, he knew that, he really believed that, it was… real.

He had the oddest need to talk to – well, rant at – Tyrion. So many pieces had, so to speak, fallen into place in his head. So many thoughts. The Others were not a mad figment of someone's imagination. He'd really known that, the first time that he'd seen a snarling head in a cage, but belief?

Belief was something else. And now he believed. And shivered. What else was out there?

And what should he be afraid of? Truly afraid?